


The Quarantine Log of Dr. John H. Watson

by Tor_Raptor



Series: Sole Mates [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Amputee!Sherlock, Coronavirus, Friendship, Gen, Mentions of Cancer, Prosthetics, Quarantine, Sherlock's Violin, Shopping, amputee!john
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-15
Updated: 2020-04-15
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:02:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23671237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tor_Raptor/pseuds/Tor_Raptor
Summary: How do John and Sherlock cope when the enemy isn't a devious criminal, but a worldwide epidemic forcing them to remain cooped up inside 221B?
Series: Sole Mates [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1704349
Comments: 5
Kudos: 22





	The Quarantine Log of Dr. John H. Watson

**Author's Note:**

> Everything going on right now is more dramatic than any story I've ever posted, but between the nature of the situation and the forced isolation I've had lots of inspiration and time to write. Though it may seem like I've been idle because I haven't posted, I promise I haven't.
> 
> The Sole Mates prequel is still in outline/early drafting stages, but only because I got distracted writing the Marvel hospital AU that nobody asked for but I'm writing anyway. It's already crossed 100k words and counting, and I'm very excited to eventually share it...when it's ready. Which shouldn't be much longer at this rate.
> 
> I needed to do something small that I could share immediately, so I wrote this. Originally, I was going to set this in the Fragile universe, but I decided these versions of the characters better deserved some added development. Hope everything is going as well as it can in the current climate, and maybe that this story alleviates some boredom for a little while :)

Day 1: _It's finally happened. The government's issued a stay-at-home order. We're not to leave unless for an essential purpose like food or medical care. Last weekend we sent Mrs. Hudson to her sister's so she won't be in the heart of the city as this escalates. I never thought I'd be grateful for Sherlock overcrowding the flat with materials for his latest scientific obsession, yet here I am reading about the shortage of cleaning supplies and personal protective equipment with my feet propped up on a box full of hospital-grade sanitizer. Sherlock saw this coming months ago and I should have listened instead of naively convincing myself it would blow over in a few weeks. As always, he was right._

~0~

Long before the global situation spiraled into chaos, Sherlock knew things would be bad. Historically bad. No, he hadn't 'deduced it,' per se, but the first news stories coming out of China activated the same gut feeling he now recognized he'd had before his diagnosis, that quietly churning sense of wrong that gradually condensed into a shrieking alarm. This time around, he knew better than to ignore the sensation in its early stages. In mid January, he called Mycroft.

He knew the answer to the question before he even asked it because he knew his brother's tendencies, especially regarding this particular subject matter. "Do you have the stuff?"

"Yes, of course," he replied curtly. "Will you be picking it up or shall I arrange to have it delivered?"

"Delivered."

"Very well. I should have it to you by the end of the day."

"Excellent. Thank you."

Sherlock hung up. It was possible the politest exchange that had ever passed between the two brothers. They both understood what was at stake, what this situation would reawaken should it progress as they both expected it might, and therefore treated it with warranted seriousness. Sherlock didn't mention his suspicions to John. With his medical background, he likely perceived the issue more realistically, and Sherlock would not be ridiculed as paranoid. It was hard not to succumb to that pre-panic when just six years ago the entire outside world had posed a comparable threat to his life.

John was unaware of Sherlock's preoccupation with the emerging crisis in China until Mycroft's hired muscle dropped off the stuff. "What the hell is all this?" he asked, watching bewildered as they stacked more boxes until the doorway to the living room was barely accessible. Before Sherlock could stop him, he waltzed up and opened the top box to observe its contents. "Sherlock, I don't know what kind of experiment you've got on, but this is excessive even for you," John remarked. "You've got enough hand sanitizer in here to disinfect all of England."

"It's a precaution," Sherlock told him.

"A precaution for what? The return of the bubonic plague?"

Sherlock detected the jest in John's tone, though he didn't entirely appreciate it. John turned away from the open box and looked to Sherlock; the mirthful smile immediately fell from his face to be replaced by genuine concern.

"In only one year, influenza killed more people than the Black Death killed in a century. It killed more in twenty four weeks than AIDS has killed in twenty four years. Viruses. Are not. To be. Underestimated," Sherlock growled.

"Alright." John put his hands up in surrender. "It never hurts to be cautious. But I don't think you need to be too concerned yet. We have no idea how this thing's gonna play out."

"That's exactly why we need to be ready."

"Understood. But where did you get all this anyway?"

"Mycroft. He's kept an ample supply ever since…" Sherlock didn't need or want to finish that statement. John knew what he was referring to without him having to explicitly state it. "His house has always been stocked like an apocalypse shelter. Mycroft knows more than anybody where the next global threat might come from. That lends itself to a certain degree of preparedness."

"And now we're prepared too."

"Exactly. We will never have to worry about running out of sanitizer, hearing aid batteries, face masks, or anything else like that. If things turn dire, we can even share when the shortages inevitably begin."

"Hopefully it won't come to that."

~0~

Day 4: _Obviously the police are still working, though the number of cases has plummeted dramatically. Even the criminal classes seem to be obeying the stay-at-home order. It would take a killer of particular sadism to strike at a time like this, when levels of unease are already so high. But that's exactly the kind of killer Sherlock would love to track down. Lestrade hasn't called for assistance, nor have any potential clients reached out privately, and I'm worried he'll soon start bouncing off the walls. I can already feel the cabin fever gradually encroaching on my mind._

Day 7: _Sherlock's been composing for the past few days. There's a sadness and a nostalgia to this piece that I can't quite place. I expected a raucous musical representation of what it's like to be cooped up inside, something resembling Flight of the Bumblebee in its energy, but it sounds like he's calmly awaiting better days or something. I should just ask him what it's about, but I have a feeling he'd just stare at me blankly as if I should already know the answer._

Day 11: _Sherlock's doing surprisingly well. For someone usually so full of frantic energy, he seems to have mastered the art of containing himself and finding a variety of things to do around the flat. I don't know where this level of self-control came from, but I'm glad it showed up. I don't think I would survive an indefinite quarantine with a bored Sherlock and no possible outlet for his racing mind. He's glaring at me as I write this; I suspect he knows I'm judging his coping skills. When I'm not using it I hide this journal in my room, but he's certainly capable of finding it if the desire to snoop comes over him. Guess I'd better not talk any shit about him._

Day 12: _Today I finally worked up the courage to ask Sherlock about the other scar on his leg. I noticed it the first time I saw his bare stump, a perfectly straight line down the middle just below his knee, and I suspected it was something entirely separate. I asked, and surprisingly, he answered without griping about it. Now I know about what happened before, about the accident, and I understand why he's more prone to frustration than I am when it comes to amputee things. He didn't start off on this path, whereas I had no other choice. The silver lining to this whole quarantine thing is that we can't exactly escape each other's inquiries. I'm waiting for him to retaliate with a question of equal magnitude, although admittedly my past is less fraught than his._

Day 14: _We spoke to Mrs. Hudson today. She said her sister's taking very good care of her, but that she misses us dearly. I miss her too, and I can tell Sherlock dislikes her absence. Occasionally I catch him about to shout something to her, only to realize there's nobody downstairs. But I'd much rather her be there and safe than be here for us to worry constantly about her catching this disease. I just hope this will be brought under control sooner rather than later._

Day 15: _It's three in the morning and Sherlock has been playing the violin for the past six hours without pause. I know I'm not going to sleep tonight, and I would be upset, but the fact of the matter is it doesn't matter at all. I never know what day of the week it is anymore, and it's not like I have anywhere to be. At this point I'm considering converting to nocturnalism just because I can. I'm sure Sherlock would be on board if I suggested it. He'd probably think it a grand experiment._

Day 17: _We keep getting messages from our prosthetist assuring us that they're still open. They count as an essential service, understandably so. Fortunately, neither of us needs a tune-up. I'm not sure Sherlock would spring for going out even if he needed his leg fixed. He's taking this quarantine thing more seriously than I expected. I thought by this point he'd be begging for this all to be over so he can go back to sleuthing, but he hasn't complained once. Honestly, at this rate, I'm going to lose my mind long before he does._

Day 18: _Sherlock somehow tinkered with our legs and swapped out parts so I now have two right feet and he has two left. But we're different shoe sizes so now we both look like our feet are mismatched. He'd better remember how to switch them back or he's going to pay to have them repaired. He also didn't know that having two left feet is a common expression for having poor coordination. I think all this free time could be put to good use teaching him some more colloquial knowledge._

Day 19: _Something flipped. I have no idea what happened, but until now Sherlock's been remarkably stoic about everything as the world around us descends into barely controlled chaos. Now he's anxious and he's not talking to me—not talking at all. He hasn't touched his violin all day, just frantically researched something on his laptop and phone simultaneously._

Day 20: _I got up at eight this morning to find Sherlock midway through deep-cleaning the entire flat. He's finally tapping into the reserves of supplies we've been hoarding since before this whole thing spiraled. I also watched him on multiple occasions wash his hands in the kitchen longer and more thoroughly than I've seen surgeons do it._

Day 21: _Sherlock insisted on doing the shopping himself. He's never done that before as long as we've lived together. He left wearing a face mask and returned within an hour. I then watched him execute the most complicated ritualistic cleaning routine I've ever encountered. He's never cared about the sterility of the flat before, often leaving experiments around long past their 'expiration date' and potentially exposing us to all sorts of bacteria and molds. Yet now he's soaking our fruit in water and vinegar solution and wiping down the outside of the milk carton. To top it all off, once he was done, he wiped down every surface in the kitchen and immediately changed clothes. I wanted to ask him where he learned to do this, but he holed himself up in his room to watch more of the news and I didn't see him the rest of the day._

Day 23: _Once again, I grossly misinterpreted Sherlock's actions. And underestimated his capacity for selflessness. He's been really on edge lately, watching and reading way more news than is good for him. In an attempt to ease his mind, I reminded him of the demographic most at risk from this disease, but apparently in doing so I only reinforced his concerns. Turns out it's not us two, but all the people currently fighting what he fought who keep him up at night. He's always so exuberant that I often forget where he comes from and what he's been through. But of course he hasn't forgotten. And this situation has only forced him to dredge up some of the worst parts. Fortunately, he finally set me straight and I understand why he can't really rest until the danger has passed._

~0~

"Sherlock, you and I are going to be just fine. This virus doesn't have the same power as the 1918 flu, it's not taking down hoards of healthy young men. If either of us gets it, we will have to keep away from the outside world for a while, but we're already doing that. You don't need to worry yourself out of your skin."

Sherlock turned from his post gazing out the window with the tension and expression of a lion zeroing in on a lame zebra. John was only trying to reassure him, but he was missing the point entirely. Couldn't he see that it wasn't about them? It wasn't about the hoards of healthy young people that would be spared; it was about the unhealthy that would disproportionately suffer for the ignorance of the rest. Despite no longer being among their ranks, Sherlock still vicariously experienced their terror. He knew how to cower from the zoo of microbes called the outside world. It had been dangerous enough without a potentially deadly novel virus prowling about.

"I'm not worried for us," Sherlock told him.

"Then who?" John asked.

"For everyone standing where I once stood." The metaphor could have been clearer, but Sherlock knew John wouldn't require extra prodding to reach the correct conclusion.

"Oh," was all the sound that left John's lips.

"John, it's only been a few weeks of this. Of you and me in this flat with highly restricted forays into the city beyond. And I can see it's driving you crazy. Do you think it's done the same to me?"

"No," John sighed.

"You're right, it hasn't. Because I've done this before, and that time I did it for an entire year with the added bonus of crippling nausea, mouth sores, and fatigue so intense I couldn't leave anyway. Now I spend all day in here with you, and the only thing I can think about is how comparably wonderful it is when stacked up against last time. I don't like to think about last time, as you know, but I can't help it during a time like this. John—do you have any idea what it's like to have your immune system systematically destroyed?"

"No."

"It's like being denied a helmet or bulletproof vest and being asked to run back and forth in front of the targets at a shooting range. When I was there, the shooters only had nine millimeters and the occasional automatic rifle. The people there today can't run any faster, but now someone's pulled up to the range with a machine gun."

Day 24: _I feel guilty now, for assuming he was worried about us. As if I'm the only other person in this world he cares about. I should have realized there's a vast community of at-risk people he has an intimate connection to. I also discovered what set him off in the first place: he got an email from Ophelia which ignited any anxiety he already possessed for the cancer community during this time. She's trying to reach out to provide services for them, since venturing outside poses far more danger for them than for the average person. I tried to apologize, but I can't do anything to actually ease his mind unless I somehow manage to cure the coronavirus, or cure cancer—or both._

Day 26: _Sherlock's parents hosted a video conference so they could catch up with him and his brother. They're going more stir crazy than any of us, it seems. Though I suppose they're used to constantly being out and about and this is a dramatic lifestyle change for them. Mycroft, on the other hand, was his usual collected self. How he manages that when the government is under duress from the global crisis I'll never understand. Although I suppose Mycroft possesses a unique ability to maintain his composure no matter how trying the circumstances. He didn't seem to worry at all when Sherlock had that massive blood clot a while back, though admittedly I don't know what he was like behind closed doors or how he behaved during Sherlock's actual treatment when the odds weren't quite so predictable._

Day 28: _We needed to go shopping again today. Sherlock was fully prepared to do exactly as he did last week, but I put my foot down and made him teach me so we can do it together._

~0~

"Sherlock, this…this routine that you have for bringing shopping into the flat. It's obvious it's not something you learned yesterday. Frankly. I've never seen such brute efficiency. Where did it come from?" John asked.

"I've never done it before last week," Sherlock told him. Which was a true statement, albeit a misleading one. No, Sherlock had never actively washed everything coming into the house, but he'd seen it done almost every week for nearly a year.

"Did you watch it on YouTube?"

"No."

"Well you have to have learned it from somewhere."

"Mycroft had…people do it for us. He also had people mopping the floors every night, cleaning every surface that ever saw human contact, and tending my beehives when I was otherwise occupied. I passively watched this routine more times than I can count, so naturally I memorized it," he explained.

"I see. Will you let me help you this time? It looked like a lot of work." John sounded earnest, though Sherlock didn't want to force him into helping with a routine that, for them, really served no purpose beyond curbing Sherlock's anxiety. He knew he wasn't immunocompromised anymore—he hadn't been for over six years—but he also knew that since level of precaution had kept him relatively safe throughout his treatment regimen, it was almost certain to keep them safe now. And if they were safe, that was two fewer potential threats to everyone who would be really unsafe should they be exposed. He acquiesced, and brought John along with him to the shops.

It was eerie, the dramatically reduced hustle and bustle of London. The city always pulsed with life, but now it was dead. As were so many people. Sherlock tore through their list with manic efficiency, minimizing their time spent out in public. Upon returning, they left the bags just inside the front door at the bottom of the stairs. John braced himself for an onslaught of instructions that would almost certainly be accompanied by Sherlock snapping at him for doing things wrong. But he couldn't learn this by observation like Sherlock had all those years ago; he needed some hands-on experience to knew what he was supposed to do.

First, Sherlock changed legs, having left a spare at the bottom of the stairs before they left. He couldn't track in whatever had stuck to it while they were out, but sanitizing it could wait until after they'd handled the food. John did the same—of course Sherlock left a spare leg for him too. "One bag at a time," Sherlock stated. John nodded and handed Sherlock the perishables, a logical place to start.

They headed upstairs, and Sherlock clearly designated the two sides of the sink as clean and dirty. Nothing from outside could touch the left side of the counter until it had been thoroughly washed. They both washed their hands thoroughly, and then Sherlock prepared the vinegar and water solution while John started wiping down the outside of containers as instructed. Anything that came in a cardboard box or something that couldn't be wiped down had to be transferred to one of their own washable containers. John hadn't even known they owned so many, but either he just never looked or Mycroft had provided these along with everything else he'd delivered. Any fruits or vegetables got soaked in the solution while their containers were washed and placed on the clean side. Sherlock probably washed his hands upwards of ten times before they got through everything; hand-washing was required any time they handled something on the clean side after touching the dirty side. All the trash was disposed of outside, the legs they'd worn out and the bottom of their shoes sanitized, and finally their clothes changed.

"Sherlock, I understand why this is effective, but why is it necessary when we're not housing or ever exposed to anyone immunocompromised?"

"It's not," Sherlock admitted. "But it helps me feel in control, especially now that I can actually do it myself and not just watch Mycroft's hired help do it on my behalf."

"Now that I know how well you can do it I'm not letting you bully me into getting the shopping all the time."

"Alright."

Day 30: _We're in an actual descent into madness now. For the past four hours we've been playing hide-the-prosthetic-liner. I woke up to discover Sherlock had stolen mine and when I confronted him about it, he told me to do the same to his. "Stash it somewhere clever," he told me. This is what quarantine has reduced us to, two grown men playing a children's game. I thought I did a good job, but it took Sherlock only ten minutes to find his where I'd stuffed it between the cushions of my chair. I, on the other hand, took an hour to discover his hiding place. Turns out the flat has a secret compartment under the floorboards in the hallway outside his bedroom. It's full of old cold case files and lo-and-behold, my prosthetic liner._

_Honestly, it was a rather dangerous game for us to play. With all the boxes of cleaning supplies still cluttering the flat, crutching about presented more hazards than usual. Fortunately, we made it through the day without any major slips, though there were a few close calls. I found Sherlock's next hiding place in less than half the time—he somehow stuck it to the underside of the shower chair. He took almost an hour this time to discover where I hid his: in his leg. It fit perfectly within the socket, obviously, and became nearly invisible unless you look straight down into it. I must admit I pride myself on nearly outsmarting the great Sherlock Holmes._

Day 31: _I asked Sherlock how much longer he things this whole thing will last. "I'm not an epidemiologist," he said. Apparently his deduction skills don't extend to pandemics. He doesn't know any more about them than I do, although he's doing better at staying informed. I'm quickly learning that I'd rather not know how badly we're failing at fighting this thing. I think I'll just sit in here and wait until it's really and truly over._


End file.
